A Dog and His Giant
by CrowningAster
Summary: A touching one-shot written from Fang's perspective. Fang relaxes in front of the fire and reflects back on the wonderful life he's shared with his master, Hagrid, during the last moments of his life.


**Author's Notes: So, a tidbit about me as a person—I work full time in animal rescue. Animals have always been an incredibly passionate part of my life, and always will be.**

**I work at a no-kill shelter that houses approximately anywhere from 150-250 animals at a time. Cats, dogs, birds, snakes, horses, broods of roosters rescued from cockfighting—even the occasional baby crocodile our Humane Law Enforcement takes from the hands (or basements, rather) of drug lords and gang bangers.**

**I wanted to write a little piece honoring an animal from the Harry Potter series, so here it is. This subject is near and dear to my heart and it's my first try at a one-shot, so I would really appreciate your feedback in the reviews.**

**Thank you so much for reading.**

* * *

_Animals are such_

_Agreeable friends_

_They ask no questions_

_They pass no criticisms_

I was the eleventh one.

I didn't understand quite what that meant as I heard Man say it from inside the house.

I wasn't around him long enough to learn his name. He was always just Man to me.

"You've got quite the litter of pups 'ere, eh?"

My ears perked up. That wasn't Man's voice.

"Yes," boomed Man loudly. Proudly. "My bitch gave birth to eleven pups four weeks ago. Purebred Neapolitan Mastiffs, they are. Nine boys, two girls. The boys will make fine studs."

My brothers and sisters. My mother. Inside the warm house.

"Eleven pups? I only see ten 'ere."

_I'm here, I'm here, out in the garden!_ I shivered a little and let out a yelp.

"The eleventh one is tied up out back, near the woods," said Man. "He's the runt. The mother didn't want him. Rejected him every time he tried to suckle."

A shape appeared in the back window. My vision wasn't clearly developed just yet, but I saw something large. And a face, covered in hair.

"Tied near the woods? Well whaddya do that for?"

"The mother won't let him feed. The mothers always know whose the weakest of the litter. She won't waste her energy or milk on him. Not when there's ten stronger ones."

"Thass not what I asked!"

Man sighed loudly. "It's what I always do with the runts. I leave 'em out there and they're gone by morning. Predators come out and take 'em. Just the circle of life."

I yelped again. _Don't let me die out here._

The large shape came closer and the rope was pulled away from my neck. I felt myself being scooped and I was suddenly surrounded by warmth. I snuggled closer and heard a heartbeat, strong and loud.

"I'll be takin' this one," said the voice in the chest beside me.

Man laughed. "You can have him. No charge. You'll be doing me a favor, honestly."

We started moving. I fell asleep.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

And what a life it has been.

The fire before me pops a little bit, and Hagrid jumps in his sleep. His enormous hand drifts off the bed and lands on my head, patting it lazily. He moans contentedly and his snores fill the room once more.

The fire is warm and its light dances on my face. I can see down my snout. It's always been a rich, stormy grey, but it's a different kind of grey now. Old grey. Tired grey.

I sigh, and the flaps around my face sputter a bit.

Well, I am old, and I am tired. That day I was taken from the crest of the woods was a very long twelve years ago. Hagrid saved me then, and he continually saved me after that.

Like the time I became tangled in the vines of ivy that crept up the side of the castle walls, only two weeks after coming home with him. I had been bounding alongside him happily as he wandered the grounds, whistling with a watering can and a bucket of fertilizer. But a couple funny little bluebirds caught my eye, and I strayed.

Six weeks old, I yelped and yelped. _Hagrid, help me. Hagrid, I'm here_.

He extracted a small knife from his coat and cut away the brush that imprisoned me.

"You're a silly pup," he mumbled, squishing his lips against my head. His mouth was rough and wet and his beard scratched me.

Or the time I slipped into a mud pit in the forest as Hagrid tracked a unicorn. He'd told me to stay close, but I didn't listen. I was a curious one.

My paws frantically squished against the muddy walls of the pit, trying to pull myself out. But it was too slippery. Ten weeks old, I yelped and yelped_. Hagrid, help me. Hagrid, I'm here._

"Fang! How'd you end up in there? Oh bugger, look at you! You're a muddy mess!"

He tossed me in the lake to wash me off. That was the day I learned to swim.

"Hagrid! You've got a puppy?!" A lanky boy with flaming red hair bounded towards us as I trotted out of the lake happily, a stick in my mouth. It tasted like mud and wood and plants and salt.

"Charlie Weasley, whaddya doing out here, aren't you s'pposed to be in class?"

The boy didn't answer. He crouched down and patted my head, and I shook off, showering him with water. He lost his balance in surprise and fell backwards, and then we were rolling among the mud together as he gasped for air with laughter and I licked his freckled face eagerly.

"I love animals, Hagrid. I want to work with them forever!"

"Thass nice, Charlie. You'll be good at that."

On the day after I turned five months old, I finally found my voice.

A pair of glowing eyes, yellow among the darkness of the forest. A mouth, curled in a snarl. Paws jumping in place, about to charge.

"It's a wolf, Fang," said Hagrid. He pulled his umbrella out of his coat.

But then it came, that sound! It started in my stomach, heavy with hesitation and nerves, and then pushed forward into my chest, bubbling into my throat and exploding out of my mouth. I didn't like that wolf. I didn't like the way he stared at me or my Hagrid, I didn't like the way he snarled. And that sound came out, telling him so. I made it again and again and again, bouncing forward, in front of Hagrid to protect him, the fear in my belly gone.

The wolf left, and Hagrid gave me an entire deer thigh for dinner that night. I still remember its taste, rich and fatty and all of its grease coating my nose.

The fire pops again and the wind outside whistles. I raise my eye to the window and see snow blowing sideways, adding to the deep piles already outside. I had always loved the snow, but this winter it just made me sad.

"Pull us, Fang!" the children used to cry as Hagrid tied their sleds to the harness strapped to my back. I loved the way the children screamed in delight as I pulled them through the snow, my legs bounding through the thick white powder, proud, strong, and powerful. They always fed me cakes from their pockets when I'd finished their sleigh-ride around the castle.

But this winter was different.

"You wanna go outside, Fang?" Hagrid asked two weeks ago, standing near the front door of the hut hesitantly. He clutched my old harness in his hands, but his face was unsure. "Season's first snow. The kids're waitin'."

Yes, yes, yes, I wanted to.

But I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I'm too old.

My bones ached as I had laid content on Hagrid's bed. It seemed like too much effort to just get out of bed, and I knew I couldn't summon the energy to pull the sled. Those days were over.

My bones ached, and then my heart ached, at the thought of the children's' disappointment.

"Thass okay Fang," Hagrid had whispered, patting my head. "Maybe next snowfall."

But wetness glistened in his dark eyes before he hurriedly wiped it away with his sleeve. He knew I was old, and he knew I was hurting. He knew I wasn't going to pull the sled again.

Four days ago, he sought advice. Tried to get me some help.

"What can I do for him?" Hagrid whispered to the white haired nurse that had come down to the hut from the castle.

"You can give him these," she'd whispered back, handing him a pouch. "I baked some dog-friendly pain relief herbs into these treats. They'll make him comfortable."

"Will they give him 'is energy back?"

"No, Hagrid. He's old…he's just…old."

I'm just old.

Hagrid's fingers sleepily drift across my forehead. His fingers, extending from his shovel-sized hands. The two of us, gentle giants together. Twelve good years.

My back in the soft grass, my belly facing the sun, warm and golden. My muzzle in the grass, nudging a shiny black beetle. A butterfly landing on the base of my tail.

Vanilla ice cream dripping from children's fingertips, their voices high pitched and laughing as my tongue winds around their hands, licking up every last delicious drop.

The harsh smell of smoke, Hagrid's strong shoulder as he pulls me from the burning hut.

The panicked honks of geese as I charge them playfully, my head low and my tail high.

Twelve good years. So, so good.

The hiss of Mrs. Norris as I creep up behind her.

The way paper rips away from a gift sitting under Hagrid's crooked Christmas tree. He always wrapped mine. They were usually bones.

The ice cold water of the lake, my paws propelling me forward. The squid's tentacles tickling me from below.

The fire is warm on my face, and I'm tired. Tired for sleep, and tired for more. Life has been long. Long, but good.

My eyes drift shut as Hagrid's snores rumble through the night. His hand rests a warm weight on my forehead.

He lifted the rope from around my neck twelve years ago. Cut me from the vines. Lifted me from the mud. Pulled me from the fire.

My Hagrid. He starts again, suddenly withdrawing his hand and shifting in his bed. He turns away from me, facing the wall.

Snow. Beetles. Man. Heartbeat. Smoke. Ice cream. Geese. Laughter. Mud. The wolf.

My Hagrid. Our life.

The woven rug under me slips, and I feel as though I'm falling away. Not rolling down a hill, not chaotic. But drifting.

Drifting.

Like the snow.

I am ready.

"Goodnight, Fang," Hagrid mumbles from his slumber.

I fade, and I imagine a place where I can pull the sled. Scare the wolf. Climb from the mud. Strong again. Whole again.

_Goodnight, Hagrid._


End file.
